How a Mean Irish Girl Changed My Life

She's short and Irish with green eyes, flaming red hair and a mean streak. Her name is Erin and she's my best friend. When I met the temperamental teenager, I had no idea she would one day become my life line.

I was thirty-six then, mother to a severely disabled child and in the middle of a divorce. Erin was still in high school.

Why we started talking, I don't remember, but we hit it off right away. I had taken a small part in a play at the local community theater and so did her mother and sister. Erin had come along to watch rehearsal and we struck up a conversation during a break.

She might have qualified as a troubled teen, had she not been so unusual. As the oldest of three children, she was nobody's pet and had grown accustomed to yielding to her more favored siblings. Perhaps to compensate, she had a large circle of acquaintances in various levels of closeness, but she still craved a best friend.

We were an uneven pair, but people grew used to seeing us together. That summer we became running buddies, confidants, and business partners. We rollerbladed, swam, hung out, and listened to each other's boyfriend trouble. And we ran a hamburger stand by the swimming area, where we worked together like old pros. We were as different as day and night, but our souls were the same.

I don't think I could have made it through those bleak years without her. On my own, with no family close by to help me, working and taking care of my son taxed all my reserves. I had little in common with other parents, who tactlessly boasted of their children's accomplishments and whispered about my child behind my back. But Erin was always there, red hair aflame, eyes glowing with hidden fire, and confronted any who dared hassle us. Her fierce companionship became my comfort and support. Her angry admonition kicked my faltering self esteem back up to a respectable level. And her patience and understanding helped me accept myself and my circumstances.

It's thirteen years later and our lives have changed dramatically. We are both married and we live three hundred miles apart. We chose good men, caring husbands, but we miss each other terribly. Over the years, our bond only grew tighter.

The angry teenager has grown into a formidable woman. Not quite as radical, she's still a fighter, but wiser now. There is no limit to how proud I am to know her. There is no boundary between our hearts.

Erin is an acquired taste. Not everyone knows how to take her. She's almost Goth, but not stereotypically so. She's outspoken and opinionated. And she can't stand a whiner. Feel sorry for yourself and she'll likely dress you down with biting sarcasm. She can be abrasive enough to make you bleed, yet, no one could be gentler when you're truly troubled and your heart wants to break over a sick child or a dead puppy.

Sometimes I ache, because I miss her so. Too easily, I could have walked away that day in the theater and looked for a more "appropriate" friend, closer to my age. I could have backed away when friends and family members frowned on our unusual companionship. Many might have, but I didn't, and I'm glad.

Single motherhood is hard on resources, health and self-worth. Raising a disabled child alone is many times more taxing. Without support, it spells hardship and despair. How lucky I was to have reached out and found one so loyal and strong.

She was there, when I found my true identity. And today, she is still the one who best knows my soul.